To be ordered, when barely eighteen, to the seat of war—to serve under Moore himself—this indeed was a fulfilment of Roy’s utmost longings.
“You’ll write to me sometimes, won’t you?” pleaded Molly, clinging tearfully to him, when he came to say good-bye. “And don’t be taken prisoner again.”
“Trust me for that!” laughed Roy. “I’ve had a taste already of French prisons. Take care of yourself, Molly; and don’t let Polly lose heart.”
“See, Roy, I have made this little case for you. It has paper and pen and pencil in it, and a tiny ink-bottle. And you can put it into such a little corner, or into your pocket. I want you to keep a journal of all that happens—ever so few words at a time. And perhaps you might send me a sheet now and then, when it is full.”
“All right. I don’t mind if I do. Not a bad notion, on the whole. You’re a good little sister. No man ever had a better.”
Roy arrived at Portsmouth while Sir John Moore was still there, and before he had given over the command to Burrard. It was always his way to see, and personally to influence, the young officers placed under his command, and though he was not to be at the head of affairs, he would still have control of his own Division. Moore did not leave nearly so much to unassisted Nature as a good many generals of the day were content to do. Roy, being aware of this, was not astonished to be early summoned to his presence, and punctually at the hour named he reached Sir John’s lodgings.
Others were there when he entered, but Roy saw little clearly besides this princely soldier, with whose fame for many a long year all Britain had been ringing, whose name on Ivor’s lips had been from Roy’s infancy the very embodiment of all that was noble and true.
Sir John stood at the upper end of the room, talking with his friend Colonel Anderson—a strangely attractive figure, alike dignified and winning, with a brow of regal breadth and power, searching luminous eyes, through which at times the whole spirit of the man seemed to shine, and well-cut sensitive lips, gentle in expression as any woman’s, while yet they could close like adamant. The young Ensign’s heartbeat tumultuously, under a rush of new sensations, and a fervour of devotion for such a leader as this sprang at once into being. In that moment Roy knew why Denham Ivor so loved Sir John, and why men could with very gladness die for him. Moore, gazing in his earnest fashion upon the boy, smiled at the look he saw. It was no new thing for him to be conscious of his own almost magical control over the hearts of others.
A few business-like questions were put, as to when Roy had joined his regiment, and the training he had since received. Presently Moore remarked—
“So you escaped from Bitche, I am told?”